Angel Down

by Lois Greiman

  “Can’t seem to find the other one,” he said, remembering the topic.

  “The other what?”

  He skimmed the nightstand where the bright colors of a paperback novel lay waiting and tried not to wince. “Sock,” he explained.

  “That’s probably for the best. From what I hear, they can be a little homophobic south of the border.”

  “The socks come with me,” he said.

  Her brows rose slightly, but her fingers never paused. “Whatever you say, Lieutenant.”

  He nodded. Good job, Durrand, he thought. Make an ass of yourself over a pair of pink socks. He took a step forward, effectively blocking her view of his reading material. And where was he supposed to dress? Scuttling into the bathroom like a blushing debutante seemed a little girly, but he wasn’t all that thrilled about baring himself with Miss Ponytail sitting three feet away. Not that he wasn’t one hell of a man…but he’d never been terribly fond of pity, and the scar that snaked halfway around his thigh wasn’t exactly babe bait.

  “You okay with a window seat?”

  Her question brought him out of his quandary. He glanced at the back of her head. She didn’t turn toward him. Hell, she didn’t even seem tempted to turn toward him. He dropped his shirt over the book on the nightstand like a challenge.

  “Durrand?” she said, fingers still tapping.

  “That’s fine,” he said and snatching up the closest pair of jeans.

  She nodded through the exchange then skimmed her gaze down the tiny screen. “You feel comfortable sitting in an exit aisle even in case of an in-air emergency?”

  He snorted and hopped a little as he tugged on his jeans, favoring his injured thigh. “You need my birthday?”

  “June third, 1982,” she said.

  He scowled at her knowledge. It wasn’t until that moment that she turned around. He zipped his jeans with rapid-fire haste. Not that he had anything to hide. Well…he had a lot to hide. But it wasn’t as if he were embarrassed or anything.

  “I assume you know I have some computer skills,” she said.

  He lowered his brows. Okay, so her marksmanship was on par with his, her intel was superior, and her memory was disturbingly accurate. Didn’t mean he had to challenge her to a wrestling match or anything.

  “Can we be ready for the five o’clock flight?” she asked.

  “Ready or not…we pop smoke at 0500.”

  She nodded and tapped a few more keys. “What else do we have to accomplish before we leave?”

  He tried not to act impressed even though it generally took him half a day to make flight reservations. He and technology had declared a temporary ceasefire, but they weren’t exactly ready to share a foxhole.

  “I’ll gather info from the remainder of Miller’s squad before we leave.”

  “Names?”

  He searched the room again and finally saw a knitted pink toe peeking out from under the bed. “I don’t know how many shipped out. But Woody Hilt, Emery Tellman, and Ken Jacobs returned.” Pulling off his lone sock, he snagged the other one, stowed them away in a special compartment of his pack and glanced around for more appropriate footwear.

  She watched him, brows raised.

  But it was best if she learned right now that he didn’t owe her any explanations.

  The room was as silent as a tomb.

  He paced to the far side. She still didn’t speak.

  “My niece made them,” he snapped finally. Finding a crumpled shirt, he yanked it over his head, glared past the ribbed neckline and challenged her to make an issue of it.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s important for kids to get validation for their skills. Where the hell are my black socks?”

  Without taking her gaze off him, she pulled a pair from under her curvy left butt cheek and handed them over.

  “So…Tellman’s in the psych ward?” she asked.

  Durrand took the socks and tried like hell not to be impressed by her intel. It was bad enough she had sock-finding talents. Computer skills were overkill. “Has been since they got stateside.” It was possible, he realized, that he sounded a little petulant.

  “You think it’s wise to question him?”

  “They only gave me a couple minutes with him before. I’m going to try again today.”

  “It looks like Hilt is still in the hospital. I’ll talk to him.”

  Gabe pulled on his left sock. It wasn’t nearly as fuzzy as Zoey’s. “You can talk all you want. He won’t talk back.”

  She glanced at him.

  “He’s still in a coma.”

  “Oh.” She cleared her throat, and goddamn, was she actually embarrassed about her lack of knowledge? “Then I’ll take Jacobs and you can—”

  “No!” He’d said the word more forcefully than he intended. Zoey would call it his grizzly bear tone. Her mother, Kelsey, wouldn’t be quite so pc.

  “Why not?” As for Eddy, she was already stiffening with anger, making it seem like a bad idea to tell her the true reason for his refusal. Ken Jacobs was a loose cannon with a bad attitude and a degree of loyalty to Miller that bordered on suicidal. Last time they had spoken, things hadn’t gone well, but Gabe was going to try again. A little persuasion might be called for this time.

  “I need you to get all the intel you can about Putumayo,” he said.

  She glanced at him. He could feel her attention like the heat of the sun. Was that a good sign?

  “Best guess says that’s the area where we’ll find Shep. Also, learn everything you can about current kidnappings.”

  “You think he’s been kidnapped?”

  Gabe’s stomach coiled tightly, but he ignored the gastric gymnastics as best he could. “I think someone else was kidnapped, and they went in to get him out.” It was the kind of stunt Linus Shepherd would pull: risking his life for some dumb-ass kid who had skipped into Colombia for a shoebox full of cheap weed. “Get any vaccinations you need: tetanus, malaria. Whatever. Make sure you have clothes that’ll stand up to the jungle climate, and take care of any necessary last-minute details on your end.”

  “Is that all?” If she was being facetious, he couldn’t tell it by her tone. Shepherd would have been whining like a lazy hound after half that list.

  “That’ll do for now.”

  “Okay,” she said and slipping her electronic device back into its hiding spot, rose to her feet. “I’d better get to it. And ahh…” She skimmed her gaze toward the nightstand.

  He darkened his scowl. “What is it?”

  “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of; my grandmother liked those bodice ripper novels, too.”

  Chapter 10

  “Hey,” Gabe said and pulled out a chair in the common area of Wellington Medical Center. It was as bright as Zoey’s Play-Doh and groaned like a ghost when he settled his weight into it.

  Emery Tellman glanced up from the jigsaw puzzle at which he’d been poking. He was young, barely past twenty. His hair was blond and short, making his receding hairline seem more advanced than it was. “Hello,” he said.

  Gabe tried a smile. “How’s it going?”

  Tellman shrugged, a truncated lift of one skinny shoulder. “It’s okay.” No recognition showed on his Scandinavian features.

  “They treating you all right in here?”

  The start of a scowl began to bend the area between the boy’s brows. Gabe tensed. The powers that be had insisted that he not disturb their patient’s calm, but as far as Gabe could recall, there had never been a single person in his acquaintance that he hadn’t disturbed in one way or another.

  “Do I know you?” Tellman asked.

  “Not really.” Even though they had met just two days before. Tellman was one of the lucky few who had made it back from Colombia. Anger inched into Gabe’s system again, fueled by images of Miller’s arrogance, and Shep’s dim-witted insistence on following the man. “I’m just a friend of a friend.”

  “Oh.” The boy nodded and glanced back down at the cov
er of the puzzle box. Diamer Face was as pretty as a picture in the glossy photograph. But she could be a bitch when the temperature fell to thirty below zero and al Qaida were hidden behind every damn peak.

  Silence fell between them. Impatience gnawed at Gabe like a bad-tempered hound. “You like the mountains?”

  Another abbreviated shrug then a sharp glance. “You a shrink?”

  “No.” Gabe shook his head, trying to look innocuous. “I just came by to talk to you about a few things.”

  “They already done that.”

  “They already did what?”

  “Talked to me.”

  “About Colombia?”

  “Who?”

  Gabe clenched his fist beneath the table and forced a grin. He’d once dated a girl who had compared his smile to that of a Rottweiler, handsome but a little scary. “Colombia. Not a person. A place. A country. You were there, remember?”

  The boy’s scowl deepened a tad. He shook his head.

  “I’m from Texas. Olivia, Texas.” Tellman lifted his chin a little with typical Texan pride. Or maybe he was simply pleased with the fact that he had remembered the name of his birthplace.

  Gabe’s stomach coiled, a product of too much alcohol and too little actual nutrition. He stared across the scratched laminate of the table at Tellman’s vacant eyes and reconsidered. Maybe he needed a drink right now.

  “You were on a special-ops mission with a man named Miller. Ben Miller. Remember?”

  Tellman’s expression became increasingly blank for a second, but then he chuckled. The sound was deep and low and hollow, as if it came from the depths of the kind of well they had found in places like Hadidi and Biskra. “Miller time.”

  “That’s right.” Excitement scooted through Gabe. “That’s right. Miller time. You were in Colombia with Miller and a squad of men. Remember?”

  “In Colombia?”

  “Yeah. In the jungle. You went there to find someone.” He was just guessing now, but it was a pretty good guess.

  Tellman nodded, but whether it was because Gabe was correct or simply to be agreeable was uncertain.

  “Where were you exactly?” Gabe asked.

  Tellman’s vague gaze had shifted away, but he spoke in a moment. “Hot there. Steaming. Like shoo fly pie fresh from the oven.”

  Gabe felt every nerve ending sizzle to wakefulness. Shoo fly pie was one of Shep’s weird-ass favorites, a disgusting dessert to be spoken of in hushed and reverent tones. “Can you remember—”

  “Mosquitos.” Tellman shook his head. “Mosquitos big as aircraft carriers.”

  “Listen, Emery, I’m just going to take another minute of your time, but you have to concentrate. Okay?”

  A shoulder lift.

  “There was a cowboy with you. A Ranger. Name of Linus Shepherd. He might have gone by another name. Roy Cherokee maybe. Had about a thousand dumb-ass pickup lines. Do you remember him?”

  The man scowled as if deep in thought.

  Gabe held his breath.

  “I like pie,” the other said finally. “But I don’t really know if I care for—”

  Gabe’s patience snapped. “Listen up, soldier!”

  The boy jumped, eyes going wide as an infant’s. From across the brightly colored room trying too damned hard to be cheerful, a stout woman glared at them. Her cardigan was straining to maintain its station. The name Irene teetered on one mountainous breast.

  Gabe gave her a smile. She made a face as if she’d just tasted something left too long in the bowels of the fridge.

  “Sorry,” Gabe said and shifted his attention back to Tellman. “I’m sorry, but Shep’s a friend of mine and I really need to—”

  “Shep?” Tellman hissed.

  Irene was making her way across the scarred linoleum, trundling between the tables toward them with the single-mindedness of a war machine.

  “Linus Shepherd.” Gabe was holding his breath. “You remember him. He wears a battered old cowboy hat, talks like he just stepped out of a John Wayne movie.”

  Tellman nodded. Gabe did the same, trying to be supportive, to urge him on.

  The boy scowled, thinking hard, then, “I’m hungry.”

  Gabe did his best to refrain from shaking the kid. “I know you are, buddy. But just focus for one more second. You remember Shep. Tall, dark hair, irritating as a toothache.”

  “What’s going on here?” Irene had arrived at their table. Even more intimidating up close, she could probably match Gabe pound for pound. If he had brought his sidearm, he would have been tempted as hell to draw it.

  “Hi,” he said and tried another smile, hopefully this one was a little less carnivorous. “I’m Gabriel Durrand.”

  She narrowed her already narrow eyes.

  “Emery and I have a mutual friend,” Gabe assured her. He kept his tone as bland as rice pudding.

  But she didn’t seem to care about his blandness or their mutual acquaintances.

  Gabe cleared his throat. “We’re just—”

  “Shep!” Tellman said suddenly. “I remember.”

  Gabe slammed his gaze back to the wounded soldier. “Where were you?”

  Tellman scowled as if every coherent thought had been suddenly washed from his brain.

  “Mr. Tellman,” Irene’s heavy brows had lowered considerably, a feat Gabe, for one, hadn’t considered entirely possible. “It’s time for you to return to your room.”

  “Where?” Gabe repeated, packing every ounce of focus into that one word.

  Irene faced him, fists squarely planted on ample hips. “Mr. Durrand, your friend’s friend has had a traumatic head injury and must not be—” she began, but Gabe reached out and squeezed Tellman’s arm. His skin felt warm beneath his fingers.

  “It was hot,” Gabe said. “There were mosquitos. You were on a mission. Miller gave the orders. Shep cracked the jokes.”

  Tellman grinned. The expression was lopsided. “What’s the difference between a pirate and a goat?”

  “Pirate jokes!” Gabe felt his chest squeeze up tight. “Yeah. God, Shep loves his dumb-ass pirate jokes.”

  Irene reached for Tellman’s other arm, drawing him inexorably to his feet while still glaring at Gabe. “We don’t allow cursing in this—”

  “Good old Shep.” Tellman chuckled.

  “Where was he?” Gabe rumbled. He rose to his feet but kept his grip on the boy, effectively causing a tug of war with Irene. “Where was he when you last saw him?”

  Tellman stared at him, eyes suddenly clear, lips just slightly quirked. “In the pasture,” he said and shook his head. “Shep was the best damned cow dog we ever had.”

  Chapter 11

  Eddy rushed through the morning, mentally checking things off her to-do list. She was hell on wheels when it came to lists. Unfortunately, she wasn’t nearly as good with people. Especially men. Oh, yeah, she could kick the crap out of Damien—the punching bag she’d christened after her first disappointing crush—but when a real, live, breathing man was in the vicinity, she had a tendency to act like a twittering idiot. And men like Gabriel Bertram Durrand… Well, she’d have to be brain dead not to be unnerved by him. And she wasn’t brain dead. She was, in fact, highly intelligent, despite what her current plans suggested to the contrary.

  She closed her eyes as her printer regurgitated information regarding the Colombian drug trade, the escalating hostage situation, and civil unrest. There would be time to get sick while reading it later on the plane. As for the vaccinations Durrand had suggested, she’d managed to take care of those at a walk-in clinic not fifteen blocks from the little short-saled Tudor she’d purchased two years before.

  She’d notified everyone that needed to be told about her impending departure…namely her mother and her two friends from work. It seemed like a pathetically short list. But it was a good thing there weren’t more, because honest to God, she wasn’t meant for lying, and yet she had done just that, inventing an unlikely story about vacationing in Aruba then bushing off f
urther explanations by insisting she had to hurry to catch her plane.

  She glanced around her personal space. Copper bottom pans hung above her persnickety stove. Small but meaningful memorabilia adorned the walls and furniture in the living area. A wooden mask from Tanzania, a conch from Fiji. As an Army brat, she was rarely in one place for long. Maybe that’s why her cozy little home felt so much like a sanctuary. And never more than now. She glanced at the couch where soft blankets and earth-toned pillows were tossed across the cushions. On the north wall, next to the much-used fireplace, hung her mother’s first attempt at a patchwork quilt. After fifteen more, Barbara Comfrey-Edwards had become considerably more proficient. Eddy, however, still preferred the blanket with the crooked angles and fraying edges.

  But the Tudor was just a building, she reminded herself and glanced out the window. Gray bullets of slush were slashing the pane. Which was just as well; at least the tropical heat of Colombia would seem pleasant by comparison.

  “Printing complete,” the automated voice announced, making her jump. Embarrassed by her own skittishness, she pulled the printouts from the tray, turned off the machine and stood.

  Outside, the slush had turned to hail. Sharp shards of ice struck her window, tapping out a warning. Don’t go. Don’t go. Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go.

  But she shook her head, aligned the papers, slid them into a folder and shoved them into her carry-on. In less than ten hours she would be on a plane to Bogotá. But what was she going to do until then?

  “I’m not saying it was Miller’s fault,” Gabe said.

  “You don’t have to say it, Durrand.” Ken Jacobs was short, tan, and wiry. A three-inch laceration had been sutured above his right eye. He had a barbed wire tattoo inked around the biceps of his left arm, and the upright stance of a warrior even when shit-faced, which he currently was. He couldn’t have looked more Army if he’d had the United States flag branded on his forehead. “I know you think it’s his fault that Shep’s gone Elvis.”